INVOCATION TO GREECE.
Hail holy clime!—where Science rear'd her throne,
And kindred arts like constellations shone,
Ere from her fostering wolfs caresses dread,
Rome, savage infant, rear'd her rival head;
Nurse of the bard, the hero, and the sage,
Too long the victim of oppression's rage;
Enslaved and fetter'd by the Paynim throng,
Sworn foes of science, and unknown to song;
In mockery crown'd with persecution's thorn,
And crush'd till courage from despair was born:
We see thee bursting from thy lingering trance,
Snatch the dark helm, and poise the quivering lance;
From gather'd rust thine ancient armour clear,
And with thy clarion wake the warrior's ear.—
—Rear, as at Salamis, thy lofty crest!
Pluck the red garland from Platea's breast!
Still Marathon that victor-shout retains,
Whose earthquake echo shook a thousand plains;
Still for thy temples Leuctra's laurel blooms,
And buried heroes rend their vaulted tombs;
With lightning glance thy fields of blood explore,
And stalk impervious where the life-tides pour:
With awful smile the impetuous souls survey,
With airy shield protect their dauntless way;
Their whisper'd voice unearthly rage inspires,
And bids the sons be worthy of their sires.—
—Lo! peaceful shades from blest Elysium throng,
In spectral ranks to guard the land of song;
Predict with withering curse its foemen's doom,
And blend the crescent with the Persian plume.—
—Dark frowns the Stagyrite;—with brow of thought
Glides the meek martyr from his hemlock draught;
The vine-clad Tean rears his sparkling bowl,
And quaffs deep vengeance on the Moslem soul;
Indignant Pericles, with haughty pain,
Marks the usurping mosque, and turban'd train;—
Fast by the Parthenon sad Phidias sighs.
And scornful Homer rolls his sightless eyes,
Hurls tuneful curses on the insulting foe,
And bids anew the flames of Ilion glow.
—Hail land sublime!—array'd in classic robe,
Mankind thy pupil, and thy school the globe!
Throngs taught by thee, in trembling ardour wait
Thy doubtful struggle with disastrous fate.—
—Yet one*[1] there was, who not with passive song,
Beheld thy conflict, or bemoan'd thy wrong;—
Bold to thine aid the lyre and sword he brought,
And doubly arm'd, thy front of danger sought;
Rear'd thy red banner o'er the Egean wave,
Unseal'd his coffers, and his spirit gave.
Cold rests his heart within thy hallow'd bowers,
And Helle's maidens wreath its shrine with flowers.—
—Genius of Greece! who drank his latest sigh,
Raise toward the Queen of Isle's thy mourning eye;
She marks the sons who round her sceptre crowd,
Stern to their sins, but of their talents proud:
Say, "for my sake thy wayward bard forgive,
Since, bound with mine, his deathless name shall live;
Breathe o'er his filial urn one sorrowing sigh,
And in his glory let his frailties die."
- ↑ * Byron.